All in Time
by Lawson227
Summary: Wyatt once again attempts to go Alpha Dog on Flynn. Flynn's having none of it and decides to hit Wyatt with a few home truths. Consider it a continuation of their little discussion from the beginning of "Mrs. Sherlock Holmes" but taking place after "The Day Reagan Was Shot."


**AN:** Obviously, I own nothing Timeless. Just the ideas in the playground of my mind. For purposes of this story, I'm running on the assumption that Flynn and Lucy have some sort of relationship in the future, however, I'm keeping the nature of the relationship itself vague, outside of the fact that there is _definitely_ some massive chemistry there.

As ever, reviews are much appreciated and loved.

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Flynn hummed beneath his breath as he worked, a quiet, near-tuneless noise meant more for concentration than as actual music. He worked steadily, even after it became clear to him he was no longer alone as evidenced by the telltale tingling at the base of his neck. He remained unconcerned, even if the sensation brought with it the feeling of a distinct desire to see him reduced to a smoking pile of ash.

"Did you need something, Logan?" He spoke without turning, more focused on the task at hand than whatever petty bullshit drama the other man had concocted to brood over.

"I get that you're never going to listen to or respect me, and honestly, I don't care, except for when it comes to Lucy. Why can't you see how this is affecting her?"

Flynn's eyebrow rose in its near-automatic response to Logan's typical inanities before he forced his expression into the inscrutability he'd trained himself to adopt during his years in the NSA. Never let the enemy see what you're thinking—at least, not until you've sussed them out. Then, and only then, you let them see what you want them to see. Comfortable that his expression was as neutral as it was likely to get, he slowly turned away from the coffeemaker with which he'd been fussing to meet Wyatt's glare head on.

"Are you truly that selfish, Logan?"

"Me?" Wyatt's eyes widened, revealing a full ring of white surrounding the blue. "I'm not the one taking advantage of her."

"Oh?"

Flynn leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms, matching his breathing to the slow, even burbles of the coffeemaker. He knew the posture projected the very image of outward calm. He also knew a soldier of Wyatt's caliber would easily recognize it as a façade. No matter. It was less for Wyatt's benefit than his own. Lucy still cared for the man, ergo, he would resist the urge to snap his neck—no matter how richly deserved, not to mention satisfying, it would be.

However, upon closer inspection, he realized the temptation was far less powerful than it might have been in the past. Judging by the tension holding Logan's frame rigid beyond even military standards and the misery etching new lines into his face, the man was trapped in a nightmare of his own making. One that would likely haunt him for the rest of his life.

Far more satisfying in the long run than the quick end snapping his neck would bring. Because if there was anything with which Flynn was intimately familiar, it was the toll that unrelenting guilt and misery could take. A fate that once upon a time he wouldn't have wished even on his worst enemy.

That was back when he'd been honorable. Altruistic, even.

A characteristic with which he was no longer burdened. Especially not where protecting Lucy was concerned.

"Tell me, Logan, how is it you think you're not taking advantage of her? Is it how you're not burdening her with you own conflicting emotions? How you're not piling unreasonable expectations on her of how she should resist from finding succor in whatever—" He paused then very deliberately added, "or whomever she pleases? How she should sit back and be happy for you while at the same time coming to terms with the fact that she may never get her sister back? That her own mother tried to have her murdered?"

Wyatt's mouth opened, but before he could so much as draw a breath to speak, Flynn delivered his next strike—

"You know she's been drinking, yes?"

Logan's mouth snapped shut, then opened and closed once more, leaving him floundering like a helpless guppy. Flynn knew this might be his best—perhaps only—opportunity to get through to him in any meaningful sort of way.

"You and I, Logan—we were trained for this. We were trained to fight—to do the unspeakable. To compartmentalize and justify the very worst of our natures in order to carry out our orders and live to fight another day. And still, the things we saw and did—the things that happened to us—left their scars and drove us both to drink. Excessively."

As Wyatt's mouth opened once more, Flynn held up a hand and shook his head. "Don't bother. The journal—remember?"

This time, the snap of Wyatt's jaw was audible, accompanied by a narrow-eyed glare. Fists clenched to knuckle-whitening tightness, he snarled, "We are _nothing_ alike."

"No?" Flynn's brow rose once more. "So that wasn't you who defied orders time and again? Who's killed time and again with impunity? Who stole the Lifeboat in order to attempt to manipulate time for his own personal gain?"

He allowed himself a quiet, satisfied smile as a dull red suffused Logan's face. Good. Time to drive the final nail.

"In the meantime, Lucy has had to come to terms with the fact that everything about her existence has, in essence, been a lie. That she was born into the very evil she's sacrificed everything to try to defeat. She has lost her sister. She has, for all intents and purposes, lost her mother. She's had to kill innocent people to survive. And just as she allowed herself to believe she might have one thing that was real—on which she could fully rely—she lost that too."

Damn, but that last part was difficult to utter. But it was true. And for the moment, at least, devastating.

"She has, in effect, lost everything including her innocence and belief in the world she knew. Meanwhile, you have regained the one thing you joined this mission for ergo, you have everything. I understand you have doubts and suspicions—any good soldier would. Yet it hasn't stopped you from grasping this opportunity with both hands. Rather enthusiastically if the noise from your room last night is any indication. And yes, we all heard. You'd think after that idiotic schoolboy conversation you had with Rufus out in the open you would have realized you need to exhibit some discretion but I suppose that would be asking a bit much."

The red that had flooded Wyatt's face drained so suddenly he was left looking like little more than a shell-shocked ghost.

Not unlike Lucy the night before as she'd appeared once again at his door, bottle in hand. This time, however, he'd taken it from her, placing it out of reach and allowing her to rush him in her efforts to get it back. He'd stood there, stoically absorbing the blows she'd rained on his shoulders and ribs as dry, wheezing sobs had wracked her body. It was only as she'd slashed at his face, fingers curved and clearly itching to draw blood, that he'd finally moved, grasping her wrists in his hands only long enough to draw her fully against him. He'd held her tight as she fought and spit like an enraged wildcat, fists continuing to pound at him until in an instant, the fight left her, leaving her sobbing for real. She'd cried for what felt like hours, her tears soaking the front of his shirt as her fists loosened just enough to gain purchase in his shirt, clutching as if for her very life.

He stood there, holding her, until her sobs faded to the occasional hiccup and finally, silence, as exhaustion and emotional turmoil finally having caught up to her, left her literally asleep on her feet.

He'd eased them to his cot and carefully laid down with her, holding her as her demons continued having their way with her, even in sleep.

Consequently, he was as in need of the coffee that had just finished brewing as she was. As he turned to fetch two mugs from the cabinet, Wyatt finally spoke.

"You're a real bastard, you know that?"

"That's the best you've got? Really?"

He finished stirring cream and sugar into the coffee before turning to face Logan who was running water into the teakettle, his grip on the metal handle that of a man desperately wishing it was Flynn's neck he had his hand wrapped around instead. He slammed the kettle on the stove and turned the burner on before turning on Flynn.

"Okay, let's say nothing happened between you—"

"Is that what she told you?" He already knew it was. But he couldn't resist the dig. Inserting that tiny sliver of doubt.

Wyatt, to his credit, barreled on, as if Flynn hadn't spoken. "You can't tell me you didn't want it to. I noticed you didn't exactly argue when that cop called her your wife."

Flynn snorted. That's what the man fixated on? Good Lord. "What was I supposed to do? Say, 'Oh, she's not my wife, Officer—she's just a fellow time traveler and we're undercover?' We'd still be in the pokey. Or worse still, an asylum."

The expression on Wyatt's face clearly suggested that the asylum wouldn't have been such a bad thing. At least, not for Flynn. "Still, though— fantasy's a powerful incentive."

"You would know." Flynn knew, of course, their most intimate encounters had all taken place during jumps. And Logan accused ihim/i of taking advantage of her? "Do you trust Lucy?"

Wyatt looked taken aback at the apparent non sequitur. "With my life," he replied automatically. Defensively, even.

"Then if she said nothing happened, trust she's telling the truth. Which is not to say I would be averse." Digging the knife in just a bit further.

"However," he continued, deliberately inserting a dangerous edge to his voice, "I don't expect to be crowing it from the rooftops. Should anything happen between us, that's where it stays."

For a brief second, Flynn had the satisfaction of seeing Wyatt absolutely poleaxed, but good soldier that he was, recovered quickly and moved in for his own strike.

"Look—you weren't wrong when you said she's capable of making her own choices, but I think even you would agree that choices made under extreme duress don't exactly exhibit sound judgment."

Flynn sighed. He'd really hoped Logan would get it, but the man's head was so firmly jammed up his ass at the moment, it was like talking to a crash test dummy. He knew eventually Logan would understand. Flynn had simply hoped to push eventually up a bit sooner, if only to spare Lucy any more emotional trauma. She'd suffered quite enough already.

"You're right. Choices made under extreme duress can indeed be called into question. However, you're missing one important point."

It was Wyatt's turn to raise a brow as he leaned against the counter.

"I'm neither questioning her choices nor am I forcing her to make any. I'm just…there."

Left unsaid, of course, was _Since you can't be_. No matter. This Wyatt actually understood—at least if the fresh wave of red flooding his face was any indication. Satisfied, Flynn nodded and picked up the two prepared mugs. Just before he left the kitchen he glanced back over his shoulder to see Wyatt staring into the one of the cabinets without appearing to actually be iseeing/i anything. Not for the first time did Flynn get the impression of a man trapped.

"Peppermint," he offered.

Wyatt's head jerked, narrowly missing the open cabinet door. "What?"

"Peppermint is the best for morning sickness. At least, that's what my wife always said."

Wyatt's jaw dropped. "How—"

It was truly wrong of him how much joy he took in the other man's discomfiture. It was something he knew he would be apologizing to Lucy for a great deal in the future. No matter how she scolded, he still couldn't seem to help himself. Still, though, he could offer Logan a bone. A small one. And really, mostly for Lucy's benefit.

"Christopher and Mason both prefer black tea. Jiya, green. Yet we all of a sudden seem to have acquired a large store of herbal tea. And you've been heating water in the kettle at night, yet I've never seen you drink tea." He paused, waiting for Wyatt's stunned nod of acknowledgment before quietly adding, "She doesn't know yet. And I'm not going to be the one to tell her."

Wyatt's gaze dropped to the floor; an instant later, he nodded slowly."Oh, and Logan?" Flynn waited for Wyatt to lift his gaze. "If I were you, I wouldn't wait too long."

Wyatt winced.

"One last thing—"

"God, what _now_?"

Ignoring the exasperation, Flynn set one of the mugs down and reached into the refrigerator, extracting a baggie filled with used tea bags, two of which he removed and wrapped in a paper towel.

"Save the tea bags, would you?" He held up the baggie for Wyatt's inspection before returning it to the fridge. "They help soothe her eyes and keep the headaches at bay."

A variety of expressions flitted across Wyatt's face in quick succession: annoyance, confusion, and bemusement, before finally settling on wonder.

"You really care for her, don't you?"

Flynn didn't bother dignifying the question with a response. It wasn't his style. More importantly, it wasn't any of Wyatt Logan's damn business.

But yeah. He cared. More than cared, really.

But all in good time.


End file.
